


touko-chan can't take your call right now

by suitablyskippy



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Dissociative Identity Disorder, Gen, Masturbation, Murder, Sexual Intimidation, Sociopathy, in other words: this fic features syo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:37:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitablyskippy/pseuds/suitablyskippy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’ve got a world-famous serial killing celebrity <em>sensation</em> right here in your bedroom," you say, derisively, "and you’re gonna waste time crying about it? Don’t you know there’s folk would <em>murder</em> to meet me in the nubile young flesh? - don’t you know you’re <em>lucky</em>?”</p><p>“Ah,” he says, “ah, ah – ahh,” and begins to wail.</p><p>“The <em>luckiest</em>!” you say. “The chosen one! One of <em>many</em> chosen ones!” </p><p>(Syo decides to give Fukawa the night off. Fukawa doesn't get a say in this.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	touko-chan can't take your call right now

**Author's Note:**

> _let's be proud_   
>  _of our original style!_   
>  _we've killed many -_   
>  _let's laugh!_
> 
> ['Literature Girl Insane': Karasuyasabou](http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=ChZBpDahAhQ)

The soles of your loafers slap-slap-slap on the sidewalk and the gutters of the houses look gilded round the edges, gold in the early evening. There’s a warm breeze fluttering your bangs: it smells like exhaust fumes and honeysuckle and it _shrieks_ of excitement to come – if Touko-chan was out she’d be wetting her _pants_ at the pathetic fallacy. Wet _in_ her pants! 

“Baby _tell_ me – whoa! – what you want it _to_ be –” You grab the trunk of the skinny tea tree in Kazukiyo-kun’s front yard and swing in, still warbling; its clouds of pale fuzzy blossom shiver indignantly above you. “When I’m not with you I lose my _mind_ – yeah, give me a _si-i-i-ign_ –”

Whoops of laughter from the public pool two blocks over drift through the streets. You go down the drive at the side of his house to a backyard with grass that’s prickly and brownish: you’d be pissed it’s so lame but if anyone knows how to force excitement into an unwilling situation, it’s you, it’s _you_ , so you hammer at the back door and tap your foot and wait for your date for the evening. 

Your date for the evening is a fucking slowpoke. You crouch down and holler through the keyhole: “Ka-kun, Ka-kun!” A single swing set stands beside the fence, one plastic seat on lopsided chains, swaying a little in the breeze. There’s a soccer ball: it’s looking kinda deflated. “Outside your house _sucks_ , Ka-kun, I wanna see the _insides_! Open up and let a lady in!” 

The door inches open. Damp brown eyes like puddles of codliver oil glisten out at you. “Uh – Fukawa-senpai?” he says. 

You wedge your foot in the gap and treat him to a charming smile. “Close!” you say. “But no cigar. Hey, Kazu-chan, don’t you know it’s rude not to ask your guests inside?” 

“Uh – sure,” he says, slowly, looking at your tongue where it lolls out neatly between your teeth. You unfurl it upwards to readjust your glasses and he flinches and you grin. “Sure, but you’re not –”

“I couldn’t help but notice you’ve got a swingset in the yard!” His knuckles whiten round his grip on the doorframe. “Do you play on it? Do you sit that plump little butt right down on it? A little kid playing on little kid’s toys, does that make this shota? Don’t worry if it does, I can get with that, I can get off on that –”

“Uh,” he says. “Uh. I don’t, uh – I don’t –” Fretfully he slides his hand up and down and up and down the doorframe and the action’s so BL-genre you toss your braids back and laugh till tears crinkle at the corners of your eyes. 

His wet codliver gaze starts to flicker, side to side and fast and anxious, scanning the yard behind you. “I don’t – no offence, Fukawa-senpai, but you’re – you’re acting kinda –”

“Beeeep, Touko-chan can’t take your call right now – if you’d like to leave a message, she’ll be back shortly, but you’re gonna be _dead_ by then – you win some, you lose some, hey? Hey?” 

He moves his mouth to speak. Nothing comes out except the damp smacking of his tongue against his teeth and it’s lewd, it’s kind of a turn on, it’s wet and it’s _so_ intimate! 

“Oh, are you scared? Have I _scared_ you? I can see all your little hairs standing right up! Hey, Ka-kun –” you cup your hands to your cheeks and lean in, eyes wide and gleeful and stop-sign-red, “– wanna see what _else_ we can make stand right up?”

He lurches back from the door and runs for it, bare feet skidding on the smooth wooden boards of the family hall. You launch yourself in after him and there’s a chase through the bright cream-painted hallway, muddy soccer boots lying shucked off in one corner, a lacquered ornamental umbrella stand in another: when you catch him in the clean narrow kitchen fumbling desperately at the lock on the french windows he hurls himself back against a counter so hard a photoframe topples from the top of the microwave. It’s him and two adults and another boy. The other boy’s looks aren’t anything special and you shove the frame aside. 

“Please,” he says, as you walk him back into the hallway. In the living room next door, the television still blares. You whistle along with the jingle to a washing powder promo and watch the last of the rosy colour in his cheeks fade away. “ _Please_ , Fukawa-senpai –”

“I prefer Genocider-san,” you say. “C’mon, up up up, let me see your bedroom!” 

“Geno,” he says, and then he stops. His eyes are glassy. 

“Do you want me to _make_ you? Do you want me to tell you what to _do_? Is _that_ what you’re into, Kazu-chan? – you want a girl to boss you about the place?” You step in and he steps back and hits the wall. Up this close, he smells like bodyspray and Cheetos: it’s pathetic. It’s delicious. “’Cos I can do that, no problem!” 

He stumbles up the stairs and you bound up after him, eyes on that pert little behind. On the landing he ducks a right. You barge into his room behind him and survey it, hand on hip and squint judgemental: swags of dirty laundry, a precariously stacked DVD collection, pale blue walls and curling dog-eared posters of one hot baseball player. In most of them he’s sweaty and topless but he’d look better bloodied and howling: he’s your number one crush and you’ve jacked off to fanfic starring him, you’ve searched the internet to find an address for him, you’ve chewed your lip as you made plans for him. 

“Get that poster down,” you say. 

“Which –”

“Keep _up_ , Ka-kun – it’s Saka-sama, Sakamoto-sensei – take him down, I don’t wanna get blood on him! Ahaa – not _yours_ , anyway!” 

Ugly tears are clotting up his lovely eyes. You wipe your thumb below the left one and then you wrap your tongue around the thumb once, twice, three times and suck his tears right off it. “You’ve got a world-famous serial killing celebrity _sensation_ right here in your bedroom,” you say, and gesture expansively around, “and you’re gonna waste time crying about it? Don’t you know there’s folk would _murder_ to meet me in the nubile young flesh? - don’t you know you’re _lucky_ , Ka-kun?” 

“Ah,” he says, “ah, ah – ahh,” and begins to wail. 

“The _luckiest_!” you say. “The chosen one! One of _many_ chosen ones,” and you laugh your delirious laugh, cycling higher and higher till you’re fed up with laughing and then you stop and it’s quiet, except for the wailing. 

The room is warm from the late sun and it smells like outdoors. “Kazu _ki_ yo-kun,” you say, sing-song. He scrabbles at the poster and it comes down in strips and shreds and the tape it was held up with flaps uselessly from the wall. “See, it’s not so hard, doing exactly what I tell you!” 

“Please, I can –” his voice ricochets up and down the scales, part broken part intact, “– my dad’s a manager, he – he –”

“Though I’ve noticed, sometimes, _other_ things get hard, when men do exactly what I tell them. Know what I mean, Ka-kun?” 

“– anything you want, I – he can –”

He’s not even _listening_ to your prime innuendo and if his begging wasn’t so wretched you’d show him the error of his ways: some boys just haven’t got a clue how to treat a girl right, and you know Touko-chan agrees. “You think this is about money?” 

“ _Please_ –” 

“No true artist does _any_ thing for money!” you say. “No proper craftsman gives two _shits_ about money! Here, Kazu-chan, look – I’ll show you what it’s _really_ all about.” With a swirl of heavy fabric your skirt is up and down again. His eyes bug out fat and round like you’ve squeezed him round the middle, like toothpaste from a tube, like guts from roadkill. You wink. 

“No,” he says. 

“Yep!” you say. 

“No,” he says, insistently. You spin your scissors round one finger; the steel is warm from your thigh, and his breathing’s getting harsher, and so is yours to match it. “No no no no –”

You seize his skinny white forearm. “Ka-kun! Don’t tell me – you’re playing hard to get?” He lets out a moan that ghosts shivers down your spine and _everywhere_ else. “Oh, I _like_ it! Tell me more, I wanna know just how much you don’t want this!” 

“ _Please_ –”

“Oh-oh-ohh, _yeah_ ,” you say, “that’s the stuff.” 

He opens his mouth again. You ram your elbow up into the pale soft underside of his jaw and when he sags you wrench back his hand and drive the scissors home, a scrape and a squelch through the gristle and past the bone and then a thud in the chipboard on the other side. He’s screaming. There’s a sweet spot where the wrist bones meet the hand bones and you lean your weight and shove. He’s still screaming. Your vision is wet and red. 

“It’s the same difference,” you say, and pause to lick your glasses clean, “as the difference between an overpriced glossy manga volume and the cheapest doujin with its ink all smudged and damp!”

Still screaming. Up with the skirt and out with the scissors and you seize his other hand from where it’s curling weakly at his chest, stretch it out and slam your scissors down. His eyes roll to white. He stops screaming and his head tilts limply forward. 

“One of them might get a little messy, but it’s done for the _passion_ – hey!” you say, “hey!” – again, brightly, and his cheek is cold and clammy when you slap it. “You know what _else_ is damp from passion round here?” 

“Please,” he says, in a choked-up mumble that makes your breath catch and your knees weak and the passion-damp situation in your pants _even_ damper. Oh, you chose a winner here, he knows _just_ what he’s doing, he knows _just_ how to get you going! 

“Please _what_?” 

“You – can’t, can’t, you _can’t_ , please –”

“Bzzzt, lose a life! And you were doing _so_ well.” One pair jammed in deep between his left-side ribs with a long scrape that judders through your hand and another just below, cocked at a careless angle in the right-side meat of that concave teenage stomach. Bloodstains burst out across his white school shirt and join and blossom into something wonderful, a red red Rorschach where every answer’s really hot. 

There’s no time to spare now the guts are gaping. You touch his cheek again. He opens his mouth and belches blood. 

“Mm-hm,” you say, in satisfaction, as it runs in dark little streams to his chin, drips, soaks through his shirt: which is sodden. You admire the undefined lines of his chest where it clings. 

He pants for breath. It’s a hollow, whistling sound. You’re panting too, rapid and exhilarated, flicking the tip of your tongue back and forth in steamy anticipation. With every pump of his heart fresh blood splatters the wall below his wrists. “U – uhh,” he says. 

You run a finger up the line of his windpipe. He tries, weakly, to tilt his head away from you and you get him in the soft intersection between his throat and his collarbone, a liquid gush and wet snapping sounds and the smell of red red _red_ as stringy bits inside him stretch and tear around your scissors. 

It’s _divine_. 

Two steps back and his bed hits your knees. You drop down on the mattress, legs splayed, survey your work – his arms high, head lolling, bare toes scuffing limply on the polished wooden boards of his bedroom and the blood pooling across them, between them – and you shudder out a sigh that doesn’t drown his gurgling. Skirt up, pants down, as far as your holster will let them – you rub down your pussy hard and fast and think about the way a desperate pleading look glazes over when the body it belongs to spends too long bleeding and you hear the rough low sounds you’re making – you flop back across his bed, and you smell the blood in the room, taste it on your tongue, limp and unfurled to past the collar of your uniform, a smell like pretty bishies suffering – 

“Oh _yes_ ,” you say, “ _yesss_ ,” and you fish out a spare pair of scissors to score a line into your upper thigh even as your toes curl. 

After a moment you wipe your hand on his sheets, and relax. You’re feeling generous! So you relax a little more, and – 

 

– Fukawa opens her eyes. She’s sprawled out on the bed of a room she’s never seen, glow-in-the-dark stars pasted on the ceiling, a lampshade shaped like a soccer ball, a mild breeze from an open skylight and the pale violet evening outside. There’s a horribly satisfying ache in her – _(womanly flower? summer butterfly? pearl from the ocean’s deepest oyster?)_ – and a close dank smell to the room like wet copper coins and her stomach is roiling over on itself with nausea and pitch black hate before she’s even sat up. 

She sits up. 

Kazukiyo Kanno-kun is slumped crucified on the wall in front of her. Kazukiyo Kanno-kun is a junior high school student. Kazukiyo Kanno-kun _was_ a junior high school student and she knew him because last year he’d been in first grade while she was in third and she would see him in the corridors, lugging his oversized backpack behind him. Kazukiyo Kanno-kun has died with his head hanging down on one shoulder and he has not stopped bleeding yet. 

“Ah,” she says, and her breath hitches. She grabs her braids and tugs till her scalp burns and it comes out shriller and shriller again: “Ah, a-ah, _aughhh_ –”

There is a rectangular patch of wallpaper behind him in a slightly darker shade of blue; scraps of tape cling on at the corners. He has a wastepaper bin with a little basketball hoop attached and at the bottom is a crumpled glossy poster of Syo’s favourite baseball player. She _hates_ her – she hates her, she hates her, she doubles up and retches, emptily – 

 

– and you wipe your mouth, pull up your pants, hop back to your feet and approach Ka-kun’s dripping corpse. The wallpaper is smeared and dark below him and there are patterns, wonderful patterns, frivolous splatter patterns sprayed out in great bloody arcs from all the points you fixed him. You can still feel your pulse in your clit, hot and rapid; Touko-chan can’t have been out for long. 

“All right,” you say, “let’s get this show wrapped up,” and you swipe three fingers through the blood pooled at his collarbones and start writing. Behind you, thin striped curtains whicker back and forth in the evening breeze. 

By the time you flourish the tail of the final kanji the puddles on the floor have started looking gummy. The show’s over, the exhibition’s closing, the circus has whipped its animals back into their tiny cramped cages and rolled out of town. You wash your hands in the bathroom and slam the back door gaily behind you when you leave the house, and then you sit down on the low stone stoop in the early twilight and – 

 

– Fukawa jolts upright in an unfamiliar backyard. The grass is parched crisp, the fence is white picketed, the day is late and warm and musty in a way that makes the collar of her uniform feel heavy on her shoulders. Strung up between teatowels and blouses on a ramshackle washing line are a few pairs of cotton panties, which suggest the woman of the house is the filthiest kind of exhibitionist and in the brief moment Fukawa spends warring with herself over whether it would be dirtier to keep looking or dirtier to look away it feels like most other lost evenings: like maybe Syo hijacked to try sneaking into strip clubs, or to taunt the police with letters made of words cut from magazines, or just to sit up on the bleachers with Fukawa’s video phone and watch the U18 boys’ basketball team, practising in shorts and sweaty tank tops and hollering across the gymnasium like they’ve got no shame. 

Then she stands up: a brief bright pain scores down her thigh and just like that it’s back – his bloodstains soaking into the wall, her fever soaking into the sheets, slithering piles of games magazines on the desk and a pulsing orange lava lamp and the smell of a wet towel mouldering in a corner – a deluge of memories like drowning in swamp mud and Fukawa runs for it, skids round into the drive and sends gravel flying, out onto the sidewalk and her loafers hammer slap-slap-slap on the asphalt as she goes, down the block and onto the main walk and she’s not even sure what part of town Syo’s left her in, wheezing as she veers left and up a footpath, behind the houses, away from whatever sirens will be howling soon. She’s running, then slowing, then limping, then stumbling to a halt to clutch at her stitch and gasp for breath, doubled over in the low shade of backyard fences. Oh, she hates her, she _hates_ her – Syo’s rotten to the core and at the core is Fukawa, it’s like breaking a moldering peach in half just to find the stone has worms in, she’s disgusting, they’re _foul_ –

Abruptly she pulls back her sleeves and examines her cuffs. There’s no blood dried in. She brings her hands up close and squints at her nails: no blood dried there; and none between her fingers, and none in the creases of her palms. “How _considerate_ ,” she says, but it sounds too sincere in the peaceful suburban evening so she curls her hands up into fists and hates the weakness of her voice. “ _So_ c-c-considerate.”

Someone in a nearby backyard is mowing their lawn. It’s a soothing whirr, a sweet early summer smell. For a moment Fukawa stands on the path, shifting foot to foot; and then she turns and starts home, because Syo’s gotten what she wants, and there’s nothing to be done.

**Author's Note:**

> if you would like to talk about fukawa and/or syo then please do [come talk about them with me](http://www.komaedakomaeda.tumblr.com/)! they are a topic i never get tired of, they are my favourite characters in all the world right now.


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